


Claim of Darkness

by Sunless_Garden



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captivity, Human John, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Non-Consensual, Stockholm Syndrome, Vampire Sherlock, Vampires, Why Do I Always Hurt John Watson?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:36:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1401637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunless_Garden/pseuds/Sunless_Garden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock thinks John's blood tastes sweetest when he's crying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John curls up in the corner, back to the wall and head on his knees. God, it's so dark. So very, very dark. He hasn't seen anything in - far too long. There's no way to keep track. No night and day - just endless darkness. He's received 17 meals since they put him in here - this small, dark room void of anything except a small hole for him to empty his wastes. But John doesn't think he's receiving even a meal a day. Either the coven doesn't know how much a human needs to eat, or they don't care. Either way, John is always hungry. Always thirsty. And so alone. Alone in the darkness.

He shivers, a full body shudder that runs from his head down to his naked toes. It's so cold, too, here in the darkness. Dark and cold and - they took his clothes, of course. His clothes and his shoes and even his socks. It's just John in here. Just John, naked and cold and hungry and thirsty and seeing absolutely nothing. He feels like his mind is wasting away along with his body. No food for his body, no anything for his mind. He's atrophying. He just - God, he just wants this to be over.

Suddenly, the lights flicker on. John slams his eyes shut, feeling as if he's been blinded. Oh, they're here for him. Maybe they will finally kill him and put him out of his misery.

"Shh," a deep voice purrs. "Look at you. Come here."

Strong arms gather him against a solid chest. John clings back. God, it's been so long since he's had human contact. Or nonhuman contact, as it may be. He doesn't care anymore. He doesn't. There are arms around him, holding him close, and he doesn't mind that they aren't warm. John wraps his arms around his captor's neck, burying his face in the strong chest and keeping his eyes tightly shut. He wants to see, but the light hurts. Burns. He wonders if this is how the vampires feel about sunlight - wanting it but knowing it hurts.

"Are you going to be good, now?" the voice rumbles.

John just nods and clings tighter. God, it feels so good to be held. Contact. He wants to touch and touch and touch and be touched everywhere. And maybe if he's good they'll give him food, and clothes. John's . . . John's so tired of fighting. At least if they tortured him there would be something - someone - to fight against. John's just been left alone with his mind and the dark.

"He's crying," a second voice, male, says from behind him. "I can smell it. How sweet."

John jumps, trying to burrow deeper into the embrace. He didn't realize there were others. He wonders how many. John's seen humans before, covered with five, ten vampires. It only takes a minute or two before they're too far gone, their blood sacrificed to keep the vampires - well, not alive. Animated.

The vampire holding him growls.

"Back off, Anderson," he says, voice deep and threatening.

"You're not going to share?" a third voice asks, incredulous. Female, this time.

"No," is the firm response. A gentle hand cards through his hair. "No. He's mine. I'm keeping him."

"Sherlock," yet another voice cuts in. It sounds like a warning.

"He's mine, Mycroft," the vampire holding him - Sherlock - states again. "I caught him. I broke him. Mine."

That last voice - Mycroft - takes an exaggerated breath.

"Very well, little brother," he agrees. "Anderson. Donovan - leave Sherlock to his pet."

The other vampires grumble, but leave. John just keeps clinging, hiding his face in that strong chest and wondering when the end will come.

"Shh," the vampire whispers. "I've got you. Look, all those nasty vampires left. Let me see your face, now."

John loosens his grip on the vampire's neck, and pulls back just a bit. He blinks his eyes open, squinting in the still-bright light. The vampire in front of him is attractive, in an unusual way. High cheekbones, dark curly hair. And his eyes . . . 

It's like they can dissect John's every thought. He can't help but shiver under the intense gaze. The vampire smirks down at him, letting him drop so John is supporting his own weight.

"Anderson was right. You're crying," he says. He sounds fascinated, bringing a hand up to catch the tears falling from John's eyes. He brings the hand to his mouth, touching the tears to his tongue and closing his eyes in pleasure. "Marvelous."

A part of John wants to run away. He knows better than to try, though. He's weak and shaky, and no physical match for a vampire even before they locked him in this hell of a room. So he just stands there, waiting for the vampire's next move.

"My name is Sherlock," the vampire whispers, bringing a hand around to splay against John's lower back. It is a possessive touch, all the more so because the vampire - Sherlock - is fully clothed, and John is still naked. Sherlock uses the hand to press them closer together, chest to chest. "Say it for me, John. Say my name."

"S-Sherlock," John manages through dry lips and a parched throat.

"Again," the vampire commands.

"Sherlock," John repeats, closing his eyes once more and resting his head on the vampire's shoulder. Almost the end, now...

"So sweet," Sherlock murmurs, bringing his head down to nuzzle John's neck. John shivers in his grasp, but tries to relax - he knows it will hurt more if he tenses. "Don't forget to say my name as I take you, John. And don't be afraid to cry - it just makes your blood taste sweeter."

Full lips against his neck, pressing a chaste kiss against John's pulse. John wants to be strong, to be brave - but he can't help the few more tears that escape. Then a sharp pain as Sherlock bites down, and his blood is being pulled from his veins. The pain soon fades, transforming into a sort of dizzy pleasure. Sherlock holds him closer, the hand on his back falling to cup his arse. John can feel the vampire's hardness against his naked stomach.

"Sherlock," John whispers softly, and then lets the darkness claim him.

*****

John wakes up. It is a surprise. He wasn't expecting to wake up. He's - he's still human. He can feel his heart pumping, his blood rushing. The lights flicker on.

"Drink this," Sherlock tells him, appearing suddenly before him.

John jumps. God, the vampire moves so fast it is almost like he is teleporting. He takes the glass Sherlock offers. It looks like water. John tries to sniff it discreetly. Smells . . . like nothing, so likely water.

"Water," Sherlock confirms. "Drink. I didn't drug it. I don't need to."

He says it with all the confidence of a strong vampire with a weak (still naked) human in his lair. There's nowhere for John to run - nowhere for him to hide. John has no choice - he drinks. Slowly, despite his urge to gulp it. He is a doctor - or was, in any case. He knows that he needs to do everything slowly, right now. His body cannot handle anything else.

"The thralls brought food," the vampire tells him. "Eat."

Soup. Tomato soup, and a bit of bread. John fights down the urge to giggle hysterically. God, how is this his life?

"Why aren't I a thrall? Why didn't you just glamour me?" John asks.

Sherlock smirks down at him, before settling in the giant bed at John's side. He's lounges in the space as if he owns it - which he does, of course. This is Sherlock's space, Sherlock's territory. John supposes - John supposes he's Sherlock's now, as well.

"I don't want a mindless thrall," Sherlock replies. "I want you. You have a surprisingly strong mind, for a human. Not enough to resist my glamour, of course - but enough to be interesting."

Sherlock says 'interesting' as if it is the most important quality to have. John supposes eternity must get boring, so perhaps it is, for a vampire.

"You intend to keep me here?" John asks, though he's already sure of the answer.

"Don't be an idiot, John," is the only response Sherlock give him. He's lying on his side facing John, piercing grey eyes analyzing his every move. Not that John is moving very much. "Eat your soup. Those mindless idiots starved you. I couldn't even take a liter without you passing out."

John eats his soup. There's no point refusing just to be spiteful, and he is hungry. The bowl is empty soon enough, and John mops up the bowl with the bread. He's still so hungry, but he doesn't dare ask for more. Sherlock sighs, sitting up to press a button by the side of the bed.

"Bring more food," he commands clearly. It must be an intercom of some sort.

Sherlock goes to lie back down, before seemingly changing his mind and reaching for the intercom once again.

"Food for John," he stresses. "I do not one of you stupid thralls coming up empty-handed."

Then he throws himself back down on the bed beside John, before wriggling so they are pressed side-to-side.

"You smell so good," Sherlock whispers lowly, burying his head in the crook of John's neck. His tongue sneaks out to press against John's skin. John tries not to cringe as Sherlock licks where he bit earlier - it's still sore, and the pressure must break the scab and let a few drops of blood loose. Sherlock sucks languidly, though John knows he must not be getting much. He didn't bite down again, and after a minute or two it doesn't even hurt anymore.

Sherlock pulls back with a growl, eyes flashing and going to the door. He moves so he is between the exit and John. A woman comes in, holding a tray. John can smell the food from where he is lying, and his stomach growls.

"Put it down," Sherlock growls. The woman, expression blank and eyes vacant, does as he commands and sets the tray down on the desk closest to the door. She stands there placidly until Sherlock barks at her to leave. She pulls the door behind her when she goes.

"Mindless idiots, the lot of them," Sherlock says, disgusted. He's at the desk in a flash, but walks back to the bed at a normal - that is, human - pace. He places the tray on John's lap, and then watches him intensely as John proceeds to eat more of the soup. He can only eat half the bowl before his stomach rebels.

John looks down at it, wondering if Sherlock will punish him if he doesn't finish. He dips the spoon down into the bowl, deciding not to chance it - when Sherlock pulls the tray off his lap and places it on the nightstand out of his reach.

"You're full. Don't make yourself sick," he orders. "The smell would be unpleasant."

John nods, letting his hands drop back to his sides.

"Sleep," Sherlock tells him, moving to turn the lights out before returning to the bed. He pushes John to his side, and then curls around him, back to chest. John can't help but tense as a strong arm wraps around his waist and a hand splays possessively against his bare belly. How is he supposed to sleep like this? Part of John wants to cringe from the touch - but a bigger part, the part that hasn't felt another's touch in who knows how long, wants to push into it.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock rumbles lowly, his voice like warm chocolate. John can feel the voice, the order, pouring into him, heavy and sweet - his lids grow heavy, and then slip shut . . . 

*****

John wakes up to a sharp pain where his neck meets his shoulders. He writhes against it - or tries. Unmovable arms hold him tight and still, as their owner removes his fangs and starts to slowly suck the blood from John's veins. John relaxes in the hold as the pain slowly transforms to pleasure, again. He wonders if the vampires have some sort of chemical in their saliva. He can feel himself go boneless, light - as the blood not being consumed at his neck rushes to his penis. John can feel himself hardening, and the arms around him relax a fraction. Sherlock splays his hand on John's chest, and gently caresses down until he is cupping John's balls. John is too relaxed to even jump at the intimate touch.

He stops sucking at John's neck, just licking softly until the blood stops flowing.

"Your tears make your blood sing. So sweet," Sherlock rumbles. "I want you to cry for me again. I wonder how long I would have to keep you on the edge, pulling you back from your orgasm again and again, until you are weeping in pleasure and pain. Perhaps I will make you spend your days with a vibrator pulsing away in your delicious arse, rubbing ceaselessly against your prostate - with these gorgeous balls and cock bound tight, to keep you from your release. Would you be ready to cry for me, each night? 'Sherlock' and 'please' the only words to fall from those pretty lips?"

Sherlock slides his fangs back inside as he moves his hand from cupping John's balls to stroking his prick. Once, twice - and then John is coming violently, shaking in that possessive embrace. The vampire only takes another mouthful or two. Enough to make John dizzy again, but not enough to make him pass out.

"We're going to have a wonderful time together," Sherlock rumbles darkly in his ear, pressing his hardness firmly against the small of John's back.

John has never heard anything more threatening in his life.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John will never be able to escape Sherlock: there is no where he can go that Sherlock couldn't find him. John's not without his tricks, though, and he knows that this is one battle that will not be won with fists and fangs.

"Touch yourself," Sherlock orders imperiously, his eyes locked intensely on John's body. John squirms back so he is resting on the headboard, spreading his legs to give the vampire a better view. He is used to this particular command by now. He is used to most of Sherlock's commands by now, so it is an effort to force an embarrassed blush to his cheeks. Sherlock seems to prefer when John seems shy or embarrassed. John imagines that Sherlock knows when the embarrassment is an act - as it usually is nowadays - but the vampire never calls him on it.

John reaches down to wrap a hand around his flaccid penis. He wants to close his eyes, to imagine a scene that will help him move the show along faster. He might think about that pretty thrall Sarah, who seems to have most of her wits about her on any given day. But John knows better than to close his eyes - or to fantasize about someone other than Sherlock - when he is in the vampire's company. Sherlock doesn't appreciate it, as he firmly demonstrated the last time John made the attempt.

John does not appreciate Sherlock's 'demonstrations.' Luckily, he is getting better at learning to avoid them.

John strokes himself firmly, at the slow, even pace that Sherlock likes to watch. He hardens slowly but inevitably at his own touch, wondering when Sherlock will give the next command. 

"Anderson asked for permission to feed from you," Sherlock tells him, almost conversationally. He's betrayed by the slight huskiness of his voice, telling John that the vampire is certainly affected by John's display. 

John's motions stop for a split-second in surprise, before he resumes his stroking. His minds is racing off on another tangent, even as he tries to maintain a steady pace and attractive show. As far as he knows, no other vampire has asked for John since Sherlock claimed him from the dark room about two months ago. Sherlock is perhaps the second-most powerful vampire in his clan, after his elder brother Mycroft, but he generally stays above clan politics. The middle-ranking vampires often share their human 'concubines' to form alliances and strengthen ties amongst themselves. Lower-ranking vampires don't yet have the strength or clout to keep concubines, resorting to feeding exclusively from wild humans, thralls, and the occasional gift from other vampires. Sherlock scorns them all, with insults ranging from 'idiotic' to 'banal' to 'predictable.'

"What did you say?" John asks, looking up into Sherlock's intense gaze. The vampire smirks at him, lips twisting in sadistic glee, as he slowly stalks over to the bed - dropping his clothes to the floor as he walks. John knows the display is entirely for him: Sherlock could be on the bed and naked in a second if he wanted, with vampire speed. John lets himself admire Sherlock's pale skin and taut muscles and graceful movements. Sherlock is often pleased by John's open admiration. A pleased Sherlock is still dangerous, but not anywhere near as dangerous as a displeased Sherlock.

"What do you think I said?" Sherlock asks dismissively, climbing onto the bed to hover over John. John doesn't let himself pause, still slowly stroking himself, until Sherlock grabs his hand by the wrist and pins it over his head. He moves with the motion, knowing it is useless to struggle against vampire strength.

"Well, I would say 'no', but . . ." John trails off, thinking.

"But?" Sherlock questions, yanking John down the bed so he is lying flat on his back. The vampire is perched over him, touching John nowhere except the hands pinning his wrists above his head. Sherlock presses them firmly into the mattress, a silent command to leave them there. John does, even when Sherlock lets go.

"But you dislike Anderson, and asking a higher-ranking vampire for permission to touch his concubine can be seen as impertinent. I wouldn't be surprised if you ripped his throat out for the offense," John replies.

Sherlock's lips twitch into a wide grin, flashing dimples and sharp fangs in equal measure. John nearly flinches at the expression, on the wrong side of that unholy glee too many times to count.

"Sometimes I just want to eat you," Sherlock growls. John doesn't think that statement is accurate: Sherlock seems to _always_ want to eat him. A month and a half ago, he might have said that. The John he is today just keeps his mouth shut, his eyes open, and his wrists where they are. He's learned a sort of grudging but seemingly-willing compliance that keeps him sane and Sherlock happy. Or, happy enough that he's not constantly tormenting John just to see and smell and taste his tears.

Sherlock leans down to run his fangs gently from John's jaw to his collarbone. The touch is so light it doesn't even break skin, despite the razor sharp points of Sherlock's fangs. Sherlock knows exactly how much pressure it takes to puncture John's skin. It was one of his favorite 'experiments' in the earlier days of their acquaintance.

"Turn over, and press a pillow under your hips," Sherlock orders firmly. John obeys without a second thought, flipping over and pushing a pillow from the top of the bed underneath him. He grabs another one to clutch to his chest, letting his head fall to the mattress and turning his neck to the side so he doesn't smother himself. Sherlock's hands fall heavily on John's shoulders, but he is too used to their touch to so much as flinch anymore. His hands are cool, but not cold, and they warm as they absorb John's own body heat.

"You're right, you know," Sherlock murmurs as he gently kneads John's shoulders. He purposefully relaxes under the touch, knowing that is likely what Sherlock wants. John has gotten very good at giving Sherlock what he wants. He supposes it is his best survival skill, nowadays.

"Mm?" John murmurs in response, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

"I ripped his throat out with my fangs, then spat his foul blood all over the floor for his pathetic thralls to clean," the vampire above him says casually, as if murdering one of his brethren is an everyday occurrence. "Mycroft did not bother to so much as raise an eyebrow at me. He knows that Anderson had been asking for it since I claimed you. Donovan was nowhere near as upset as she pretended. Now that Anderson is ashes, she'll inherit some of his thralls as his childe. She'll have to fight for them, of course, but she's more resourceful than she lets on."

John is not quite sure what response Sherlock would prefer. He wants to ask how Lestrade reacted to Sherlock killing one of his childer, but doesn't dare bring up another vampire's name in bed. Sherlock can mention whoever he wants in these moments, but John knows better by now than to demonstrate any particular interest in anyone - or anything - not Sherlock. He decides to settle on a more neutral, or at least Sherlock-neutral, response.

"Was he surprised?" John asks softly. Sherlock chuckles as he trails his hands up from John's shoulders to entwine their fingers, then lays his weight against John's back.

"Exquisitely so," Sherlock murmurs into his ear. "Nowhere near as exquisite as you, of course. Mm. I can hear your blood rushing through your veins. Do you want me to bite you?"

John tilts his neck to display Sherlock's mark.

"Say it," Sherlock growls deeply. "Beg for it."

"Bite me," John says. "Please, bite me. I want it."

It is a relatively new request from Sherlock. Not only does he want John to comply with being fed from: he wants John to want the feeding. As far as new requests go, it isn't particularly shocking. It is also thankfully harmless to anything but John's pride. As long as Sherlock is satisfied that John is sufficiently needy for his touch and his bite and his cock, the vampire does his best to make it all pleasurable for John. Like now, as Sherlock smoothly sinks his sharp fangs into the mark on John's neck. There is a small prick of pain before the endorphins and reaction to the aphrodisiacs in Sherlock's saliva kick in.

John moans in pleasure, no longer bothering to keep his sounds muffled. He tilts his hips back, rubbing against Sherlock's erection until it slips between the cheeks of his arse. He sighs, arching up into Sherlock's thrusts as the vampire slides against him skin to skin. John's learned to win his battles when he can, and to pick them even more carefully. He has precious little to bargain with, except for his enthusiasm and willing consent. Sherlock seems to want both more by the day, and John is learning to distribute them in such a way that just makes Sherlock want them even more. If John is going to be dependent on a sadistic genius vampire, he is going to try his best to make the vampire want him desperately. Co-dependency is his best chance at continued survival. If Sherlock gets bored with him . . .

John shudders at the thought, hoping the vampire takes it for a shudder of pleasure. Sherlock gently pulls his fangs out, but continues to lap at the blood seeping from John's neck. 

Well, there are only two exit options for a concubine: death and turning. Death is commonly at the hands of the clan: the vampire strings his former concubine up in a public area and lets the lower-ranking vampires free reign. John has seen one former concubine killed this way. It wasn't a pleasant death, and neither was it a short one. The young woman was strung up by her wrists for three days, dozens of bite marks bleeding sluggishly, until she died of some combination of dehydration and blood loss.

John knows that he will never escape. He knows that there is nowhere he can run, nowhere he can hide, that Sherlock will not find him. So his best chance is to make Sherlock need him. It is a dangerous game: the most dangerous game John will ever play, with the most formidable opponent he will ever face. If he loses, John will be punished with a long, slow, and painful death. If he wins . . . If he wins, John will gain eternal life.

Sherlock gives one last lick to John's neck, before starting to press kisses to his skin.

"Lube?" John asks carefully, because Sherlock's cock between his cheeks is beginning to chafe. He knows Sherlock doesn't feel it. Even if he does, the vampire seems to enjoy pain, to translate it as just more pleasure. "Please?"

Sherlock keeps pressing kisses to John's skin, moving from his neck to his shoulders to the nob at the top of his spine. John can feel Sherlock's smile against his skin. The air shifts for a moment, before Sherlock settles his weight down even more firmly across John's back. Gone and back in a split second: it is moments like these, when Sherlock so casually demonstrates his speed or his strength, that reinforce to John that he will never escape.

Sherlock presses the lube into John's hand, then proceeds to lay kisses down his spine. Their positions are shifted in such a way that Sherlock is no longer pressing between John's arse. He wonders if the vampire will be satisfied with intercrural tonight, but John knows better than to ask. John also doesn't know how he is possibly supposed to prepare himself like this, with Sherlock pressing him firmly against the bed and leaving him no room to maneuver.

Sherlock stops at the small of John's back to lavish attention on his dimples. He squirms at the touch of those lips. John is so very sensitive there, which of course Sherlock knows. Sherlock knows John's body better than he does, at this point. Then Sherlock is moving again, bringing his hands down to spread John's buttocks apart. John can't see what he is doing back there, but he can feel the intensity of Sherlock's gaze on one of his most private places. He manages not to shift under the attention, but only just.

"Hold yourself open for me. Hold yourself open, beg for my mouth, and I will consider using the lubrication," Sherlock tells him, his voice seductive with an underlying hint of threat. John immediately moves his hands down to clutch at his cheeks, holding himself open as asked. He drops the lube to rest on his lower back, knowing better than to put it down in the sheets where it might get lost.

"Please," John murmurs softly, knowing Sherlock will be able to hear him no matter how quietly he may talk. "Please."

"What do you want, John?" Sherlock practically purrs. "Be specific."

"I want your mouth, your lips, and your tongue. On my arse and in my hole. Sucking and licking, loosening me up for your cock," John says, being as specific as possible. Then he adds another "please" or two for good measure.

"Good. You're learning," Sherlock murmurs, before dipping down to lick from John's perineum to his hole. "Do you like that?"

"Yes, Sherlock," John gasps. "Yes, please. More. I like it. Please."

Another smile presses firmly against his skin, felt but not seen, before Sherlock licks gently around the rim of John's hole. He laps at it softly until John relaxes under him, opens for him. John still holds himself open, his fingers likely leaving marks on the pale skin of his cheeks. Sherlock's fingers join his own, spreading him wider, before that talented tongue slips inside him.

"Oh," John moans, without provocation this time. Sherlock likes it when he's noisy, when he's encouraging. "Please. Please. Sherlock!"

One of Sherlock's hands slips down to fondle John's balls, and then reaches down to lightly stroke his cock.

"You've convinced me," he says playfully, pulling one of John's hands free and shifting it so his palm faces up. Sherlock grabs the lube from John's back and squirts a generous portion into John's palm. "Prepare yourself for me."

"Thank you," John sighs, as he lets go of his other cheek and coats his fingers in the slick liquid. Sherlock's fingers replace his, holding him open for Sherlock's view. His first finger slips into without much difficulty. He's still wet and open from Sherlock's tongue. The second causes a bit of a burn, but John knows better than to take his time: he never knows how long Sherlock might give him to prepare. He scissors his two fingers, ignoring the slight discomfort before adding a third. John's not in a good position for this, and he can't reach his prostate to add a little pleasure to lighten his pain, so he just grits his teeth and makes sure he'll be ready for Sherlock's cock.

One of Sherlock's fingers slip in to join his own, crooking immediately to press against John's prostate. His writhes at the sensation, pressing back into Sherlock's touch and forward into the pillow under his hips. John's cock softened a bit during the preparations, but it is beginning to stiffen once more.

"You're ready," Sherlock informs him imperiously, pulling John's fingers out with his own. He pulls John's hands up to the headboard, and John holds tight. Then Sherlock grabs his hips, tilts them up, and slides in one smooth thrust.

"Oh," John moans, pushing back into the thrusts. Sherlock moves at a slow, even pace, pushing in deep and then sliding out until just his tip is pressed against John's hole.

"This is what Anderson wanted," Sherlock growls, sounding almost unaffected. He doesn't need to breathe, so of course he doesn't gasp for air during sex. John can detect a hint of roughness to his voice, though. Enough to tell John that Sherlock is enjoying this quite a bit. "This is what Anderson wanted, John. To taste you. To touch you. To fuck you. He thought he could take you from me. He couldn't, though. No one can."

John groans in agreement, holding the headboard more firmly so he doesn't reach down to touch himself. Sherlock shifts his hips, and then every thrust is pushing past John's sweet spot, and he thinks he might just go crazy.

"Sherlock!" he yelps, writhing as best he can against the vampire's solid hold on his hips.

"No one can take you away from me, John. I was your first male lover. The first to touch you this way, to push inside you. And I'll be your last lover. No one else will ever touch you this way again," Sherlock growls. John nods in agreement, then lets his head hang down limply between his straining arms as he shudders in pleasure. "Say it, John!"

"No one . . . no one else will touch me like this again. You were the first, and you'll be the last," John murmurs. Then adds for good measure: "I'm yours, Sherlock. I'm yours."

Sherlock goes wild at John's words, his thrusts picking up in speed and intensity. John tries to brace himself against the headboard, afraid he's going to hit the wall.

"Mine," Sherlock states firmly, before sliding his hands from John's hips to wrap around his chest. As he pulls John into a kneeling position, John's fingers slip from the headboard. He's nervous for half a second, because maybe he shouldn't have let go? But Sherlock quickly eases his nerves, grabbing John's arms and pulling them up and back to wrap around Sherlock's neck. The position presses John's chest out, exposes his vulnerable belly and genitals to the open air. Sherlock takes advantage, bringing one hand up to tweak at John's nipples and the other to wrap around John's cock.

"Tell me," Sherlock whispers into his ear, resuming his thrusts as he teasing John's sensitive nipples and cock. "Tell me."

"Yours," John groans, pressing into the touches. "I'm yours, Sherlock."

He tilts his head to the side, exposing his neck and Sherlock's mark. Sherlock growls at the movement, bringing his head down to press a wet kiss against the mark. Then . . . Sherlock's fangs sink in, and John's mind shorts out, and he's coming all over Sherlock's hand and the bedsheets. Sherlock presses him down against his front, pulling his fangs out and lapping at John's blood. The vampire is still thrusting inside him, and John shudders as Sherlock's cock brushes past his oversensitive prostate. Sherlock can last all night, John knows from experience. But it is less than a minute before Sherlock is stilling inside him, and John feels the spurts of cool ejaculate fill his hole.

Sherlock presses contentedly against his back, weight pinning John to the bed, his mouth still licking and sucking at John's neck. He gradually softens inside him, slipping free after a few minutes. John dislikes the sensation of Sherlock's come sliding from his overused hole, but he doesn't complain. Not even when Sherlock shifts his weight to the side so he can reach a hand down and play with John's oversensitive pucker.

"Mine," Sherlock murmurs again, lazy and content. John nods, letting himself relax and hiding his self-satisfied smile in the bedsheets.

Yes, he might belong to Sherlock. But John knows something the vampire hasn't quite realized yet: Sherlock owns John's body, but John owns Sherlock's heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John realizes he has underestimated Sherlock. Luckily, Sherlock has made the same mistake with John.

"Sherlock," John moans, throwing his head back and tangling his fingers in that dark curly hair as the vampire swallows John's cock down his throat. God, he's been waiting so long. Maybe Sherlock will actually let him come this time? "Sherlock, oh . . ."

Sherlock pulls back with a satisfied smirk before John can come, reaching a hand up to curl around John's cock. No, not again. John tries to buck into the touch, but Sherlock holds him down with a firm hand on his hip. John tries to relax, to give Sherlock what he wants.

"Ask me for it," Sherlock commands, eyes bright as his tongue flicks out to touch the head. John cries out, letting go of Sherlock's hair before he pulls it. He wants to come so badly, but Sherlock doesn't seem to care tonight. He fists his hands in the bedsheets and clenches his eyes tightly shut, wondering what he should ask Sherlock for: a bite or an orgasm. Which would make Sherlock more inclined to give John what he wants? Sherlock presses almost chaste kisses down John's length as he gently toys with his balls. The action quickly makes up John's mind.

"Bite me," John gasps. "Please, Sherlock. Bite me."

A grin - a quick flash of sharp fangs - and Sherlock dips his head to John's inner thigh. There? He's never . . . Sherlock licks wetly at the pulse there, before fitting his mouth in place and slowly. biting. down.

John screams, eyes snapping open as he immediately comes all over Sherlock's hand and his own stomach. He's surprised at his own reaction. Yes, Sherlock's bites are almost always pleasurable, but never quite to that degree. But Sherlock never bit him there before. God, no wonder, if it will make John react like that every time. He falls back against the bed, boneless. Sherlock is still taking small mouthfuls from his thigh, sucking softly as he reaches down to press a finger inside John's hole. John gasps weakly, still oversensitive from his orgasm and sore from Sherlock's earlier use. He doesn't protest though, just reaches down to lightly touch Sherlock's throat.

The vampire swallows once more, and John can feel the movement under his fingers. Then Sherlock pulls back to lap softly at the wound, still bleeding sluggishly from Sherlock's bite. Sherlock slips a second finger inside John, crooking them to press firmly against his prostate. John shivers at the touch, letting his hand fall from Sherlock's throat to grip at the sheets again.

"You're still wet and open from earlier," Sherlock murmurs against the sensitive skin of John's inner thigh. He slips a third finger inside John, before shifting John's legs over his shoulders for unimpeded access to his hole. "I can smell myself inside you."

Sherlock's tongue joins his fingers, and John moans at the wet touch to his sore, sensitive hole. Of course Sherlock can smell himself. Christ, he's probably tasting himself right now. Sherlock came inside him twice, denying John his own orgasm until the recent blood-letting. John writhes under Sherlock's tongue and fingers and just the thought of those teeth in his inner thigh. He will definitely be asking for that again.

Sherlock pulls his mouth and fingers away from John's hole, keeping John's legs over his shoulders as he slides up so they are nearly face to face. John accommodates the position easily, used to being bent in all sorts of positions. Sherlock dips his head down for a kiss, quickly taking control. John can taste Sherlock's semen and his own blood on the other's tongue: a mix of the coppery sweetness of human and the bitter tang of vampire. Sherlock pulls away to press wet kisses along John's jaw and down his neck, nuzzling at his mark as he lines their hips up and thrusts inside him.

"Sherlock!" John groans, not quite a protest (but only because he knows better than to protest). It doesn't matter than he's sore and tired and oversensitive: all that matters is not displeasing Sherlock.

"Lestrade turned his concubine last night," Sherlock tells him almost casually, slowly thrusting as he grins and flashes those wonderful, hateful fangs down at John. "She'll wake up tomorrow morning."

John tries to focus: on their conversation, and on not pulling away. It is one thing to take Sherlock when he is aroused, but John is only human. He doesn't have a vampire's stamina or refraction time: he just wants to take a bath and sleep.

"Molly?" he asks, trying to remember the name of Lestrade's concubine.

"Yes," Sherlock agrees, sneering. He swivels his hips, brushing against John's prostate and sending sparks of painful pleasure up John's spine. "I killed Anderson, so Mycroft gave him permission to create another childe."

John wants to ask why Sherlock is trying to discuss this now, but he doesn't bother. Sometimes Sherlock likes to drive John crazy while he pretends to be unaffected. John knows Sherlock is aroused, of course: the evidence is inside him, so to speak. But as a vampire, Sherlock's skin doesn't flush with blood, he doesn't gasp for breath, and he is incapable of perspiring. Instead, John reads Sherlock's arousal in the intense look in his eyes, the roughness of his voice, and the way he clutches John so tightly.

Sherlock lapses into silence and resumes thrusting. It is far too long before he stills, and John feels the cool pulses of his orgasm inside him. He relaxes in relief as Sherlock lets John's legs fall to the bed. The vampire arranges them on their sides, pulling John's back against his chest.

"Those silly lessons human schools give to their students are almost entirely inaccurate," Sherlock murmurs into John's ear. John nods, trying to stay awake and alert. He knows better than to fall asleep when Sherlock wants to talk to him. Sherlock nuzzles into his neck, pressing another kiss against his mark. John hopes he doesn't bite down again: he is already a bit dizzy from the earlier feeding. "Ordinary vampires find it difficult to glamour other vampires."

Sherlock says 'ordinary' like most people would say 'diseased'.

"Mm," John hums back, because he already knows that. He's seen Sherlock glamour other vampires before, but Sherlock is hardly ordinary. He and his brother Mycroft are the oldest, strongest vampires in their clan.

"But childer," Sherlock continues. "Even a fledgling vampire can still glamour his childer. It's just inherent, a childe's instinct to obey his sire. Even with a weak sire, a turned vampire will need decades before he is independent and can resist his sire's orders."

John swallows heavily at this information, his languor slipping away as he realizes Sherlock might be trying to tell him something. Because if a weak sire has control for decades . . . Well, Sherlock is anything but weak.

"Why . . .?" John trails off, unsure how to phrase his question.

"Why am I telling you this?" Sherlock phrases it for him. "Well, I only want to make sure you understand the consequences of what you're asking from me. It's kinder, isn't it?"

John's breath catches and he goes completely, utterly still. He can feel his heart pounding and his blood rushing through his veins and - Sherlock knows. Of course Sherlock knows. He can tell a pilot from his thumb and a soldier from his hair. He probably knows each and every thought John has had for the past six months. John feels sick. If Sherlock knows . . . if Sherlock knows, it probably means he's been playing with John. He doesn't care for John at all, likely. He's just another experiment. Sherlock wanted to see how far the stupid, pathetic human would go: he wanted to make John complicit in his own destruction. He flushes with humiliation, remembering all the times he moaned and cried and begged for Sherlock.

For nothing.

John won't die like that girl hanging from her wrists, mocked and ridiculed and veins opened for any vampire who wants a bite. He won't. And if Sherlock knows . . . if Sherlock knows and is telling John, that means the game is up. He's not turning John: he's messing with him. John will never escape, and if Sherlock won't turn him . . . 

John's only other option is death. His mind immediately flashes to the razor in his bathroom: the one Sherlock gave him a month ago as a reward for his "good behavior." John's a doctor (or at least he was). He knows how and where to cut to make it quick. If he's going to die, it will at least be on his terms.

"You're scared," Sherlock says suddenly. He sounds surprised.

"Yeah," John replies shakily. "Good deduction, that."

Sherlock turns John onto his back, hovering over him and looking down into his eyes.

"Oh," the vampires murmurs, his lips twitching into a grin. "Yes, I've been aware of your plan. I originally intended to mock you for it. I was aware of your charms, so I supposed you would not affect me."

John turns his head to the side, unable to look up into that smug expression any longer. He's lost, but he doesn't have to cooperate with his own defeat any longer. Sherlock places a gentle, cool hand on John's cheek, and tilts his face back so their eyes meet again.

"I underestimated you, John Watson," the vampire admits. John does not react: he knows Sherlock is a skilled actor. "Will you make me say it?"

John refuses to respond, staring up at the vampire stonily.

"So strong, despite everything," Sherlock whispers. He traces John's jaw with a soft touch. "I knew of your plans, and I was aware of your charms. But I did underestimate you. Because your charms aren't artificial: your pleasure isn't fabricated. You just let yourself feel it. I've informed Mycroft that I will soon create my first childe."

John blinks up at him.

"What?" he asks, incredulous. He knows Sherlock has turned other vampires. Does Sherlock really get that much satisfaction from messing with John's head?

"I'm being honest," Sherlock tells him, reading his expression. "The others are minions, not childer. Childer receive more blood during turning, and more care afterwards. Childer have the potential to be a Companion."

Companion?

Fuck.

John swallows heavily, suddenly realizing that his campaign might have been too successful. He thought Sherlock would lose interest once he was turned: a couple decades or so of service, and then John would be free. But if Sherlock is being honest (and there is still a very large chance he is not), then Sherlock might be planning to keep John forever.

"Exactly," Sherlock grins, flashing fangs and dimples in equal measure. "If you insist on being my heart, I insist on keeping you."

John wants to claim that he hasn't insisted anything, but he's still a bit shell-shocked. He lets Sherlock turn him onto his side once more and snuggle against his back.

" . . . so you love me, then?" John asks after a minute or two of silence.

"Don't be obvious," Sherlock sneers, belying his words with a soft kiss to John's temple, and another to the mark on his neck.

Obvious.

Right.

John doesn't know how he got himself into this mess. But there really isn't anything he can do about it now, so curls up in Sherlock's embrace and lets sleep claim him. He can try to figure out a new game plan later: hopefully this one Sherlock won't figure out after two minutes.


End file.
